Chris Wright - Age of Sigmar - Omnibus

Unfortunately, the setae were also full of skaven. They had turned most of the natural structures into stinking warrens, burrowing down deep through them into the worm’s body. Shu’gohl would be dead and the city in ruins by the time the Astral Templars cleared them. But if they could silence the catapults and take the Dorsal Barbicans, they might be able to prevent one of those eventualities at least.

Then we’ll burn their stinking warrens clean, as we did in the Ghurdish Heights, he thought, with savage satisfaction.

The worm heaved, and skaven rained down, tumbling from the swaying towers. Those on the ground didn’t seem unduly bothered, and they pressed on, squealing blasphemous chants. Besides the sheer number of their foe, the Stormcast shield wall was hemmed in by the plague-clouds launched from the verminous catapults. Trying to cut off possible avenues of retreat, Zephacleas thought, watching as the right flank of the shield wall shifted slightly to avoid the breeze-borne clouds of contagion which spread slowly across the battlefield.

Even worse was the creaking war engine which loomed over the centre of the skaven horde, expelling a foetid murk from the massive censer swinging from its arch. He’d seen similar war-machines during the battle for the Gates of Dawn, and in the plague-burrows of the Ghurdish Heights. The smoke from its censer drove skaven into a frenzy, but could melt the flesh from a warrior’s bones. A skaven rat-priest stood atop the pulpit mounted on the front, shrieking in what might have been fury.

Swirling clouds of flies filled the air, flowing towards the Stormcasts as the rat-priest gestured. As the solid wave of insects swept over the shield wall, they clustered at the eye and mouth slits of the Liberators’ helms, smothering their heads and blinding them. Warriors staggered and the line began to come apart. They recovered almost instantly, but the skaven took full advantage of the momentary lapse. Skaven censer bearers lurched forward, shoving aside the other rat-monks in their haste to reach the shield wall.

A smoking censer crashed down, knocking a Liberator from his feet. It was a massive sphere of black iron, almost as large as the skaven which wielded it. The creature, clad in rotting robes, slammed a taloned paw down on the shield of the fallen Stormcast, pinning the warrior in place as it swung its weapon up for a second blow.

Zephacleas charged towards it, bulling aside several smaller vermin. He slammed into the skaven and sent it sprawling. More of its censer-wielding brethren swung at him, and the fuming spheres struck his armour with hollow clangs. The air became thick and foul, and he coughed, trying to clear his lungs even as he whirled his sigmarite war-cloak out. The runic enchantment woven into the cloak activated, and dozens of small hammers hurtled into the packed ranks of the enemy, killing many of the ratkin and driving the rest back.

‘On your feet, Arcos,’ Zephacleas said, as he parried the smoking censer with a blow from his hammer. As the Liberator clambered upright, Zephacleas defended him from the skaven. With hammer and blade he drove them back again, and again they hurled themselves forward, yellow froth dripping from their scabrous muzzles. ‘Get in line — force them back, brothers, force them back,’ he said.

Zephacleas glanced around, ‘Gravewalker! We are on the verge of being overwhelmed. We need to drive these beasts back,’ he called, as the shield wall began to reform itself with a crash of metal.

‘Aye, my Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said, bringing the sigmarite ferrule of his staff down on a skaven’s skull. He set his staff and began to chant, his sonorous voice echoing out above the clamour of battle. The air began to smell of hot iron, and the fire-wyrm skull on Seker’s staff glowed with a sapphire light.

Before his prayer could reach its crescendo, the sky flared a deep cobalt.

‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ Zephacleas said, as the light grew more intense. It was not painful to look upon, though the skaven didn’t seem to agree. They edged back, screeching and chittering in a growing frenzy. Even the clangour of their bells had fallen silent.

‘It is not me,’ Seker said, in a hushed voice. ‘It is the light of Azyr. The breath of the very stars themselves. But it does not burn here by Sigmar’s will — something else invokes it.’ The Lord-Relictor sounded… shaken, as if he found it hard to comprehend what was happening.

‘Whatever it is, I’m not letting this opportunity pass us by. Beast-bane, forward—’ Zephacleas began, but Seker stopped him.

‘No, look,’ the Lord-Relictor said, extending his staff towards the light.

It swelled, growing brighter by the moment. Scores of skaven were incinerated by the celestial radiance, and the rest crowded back from it. Their flesh steamed and burned as they fought with one another to escape the light. It was as if some force had plucked a star from the firmament and dropped it onto the Crawling City. Shu’gohl roared, and the ground shook as the worm reared, casting the shadow of its head across the lower sections of the city. The light filled the streets, rising above the tallest tower before fading to reveal something that was neither Stormcast nor skaven.

‘Sigmar’s light — it is one of the Starmasters,’ Seker said, as the blue haze faded and the thing was revealed fully. ‘The seraphon have come.’

‘That’s a seraphon?’ Zephacleas said, staring at the new arrival. Its massive frame was squat and vaguely batrachian in appearance. It sat hunched atop a graven throne which was clustered with thick vines and brightly hued blossoms unlike any he’d ever seen before. The throne hovered above the street, surrounded by the same flickering azure radiance which illuminated its occupant. Heavy-lidded, half-shut eyes flickered, and a wide mouth opened in what might have been a sigh. A long arm rose and gestured. The air reverberated with a forceful silence. The dust stirred, and in the skies above, heretofore unseen stars flickered strangely.

Something crawled up the back of the throne and perched at its summit. It wore thin, pale robes and a cloak of feathers over its scaly shape, and its narrow skull was topped by a vibrant crest. It clutched a golden staff in its claws, and as Zephacleas watched, it extended the staff towards the skaven. The occupant of the throne gestured lazily, and the air before it was suddenly suffused with radiance. A spiralling nimbus of light grew and spread, and the air trembled with the sound of bestial roars and hisses.

A moment later, rank upon rank of reptilian warriors emerged from the glowing nimbus and moved towards the skaven. They advanced shoulder to shoulder, bearing exotic weapons and armour which gleamed with a fiery radiance. Even as they tore into the skaven, their ranks split to disgorge a pack of monstrous reptiles ridden by saurian warriors. At the head of these scaly riders was an even larger monstrosity, such as Zephacleas had never seen save in half-formed memories of deep jungle crevasses and bellowing shapes which hunted for man and beast alike. The great beast bore another of the scaled seraphon on its back and both rider and mount roared in fury as they tore through the skaven like a sword through flesh.

Taken aback by the sudden appearance of this new threat, the skaven could muster no defence. Their horde crumbled in on itself, as the more fanatical fought and the more prudent attempted to flee. From atop the war engine, the skaven priest chittered imprecations at its followers, but to no avail.

Zephacleas clashed his weapons together. ‘They’re distracted. Gravewalker, keep herding them towards the newcomers — if the seraphon want to slaughter vermin, let’s oblige them. Beast-bane, forward !’ he said, raising his sword and signalling the shield wall to advance. The Lord-Relictor shouted something, but Zephacleas was already moving.